It was summer and you weren't smoking anymore. You still bit your nails when in stress but at least that doesn't **** you.
My mom said she didn't like you because you smoked and you played in a band, she said you'd break my heart.
I've always been a goodie-two-shoes and I told you I didn't want to disappoint her, and then you asked me if I wasn't disappointing myself.
I told you I couldn't see you because a lighter was always in your pocket and your sweaters always smelled like smoke and your palms were callused and your voicewas awfully musical.
You said you'd give up on anything for me but I told you that if I let you, then I'd be really disappointed in myself, before I left.
I've never cried as much as that night, and I didn't see you for months and then I realized my mother was right, you did break my heart, but only because I made you drop it.
Now its too late for anything and I guess I'll never know how your mouth tastes without the tobacco lingering.